Recovery and Relapse
by ThisLittleDeath
Summary: Takes place after Mockingjay, but before the Epilogue. Katniss and Peeta try to pick up the pieces and keep away the ghosts that threaten to swallow them whole. Scenes of their recovery and relapse. Can they save each other yet again from this new enemy?
1. Chapter 1

**Takes place after Mockingjay - before the epilogue. Just a little one-shot on how Peeta and Katniss' deal with the demons. Most likely just a one-shot. Unless you think I should continue?**

** Spoilers for Mockingjay!**

Please review!

~TLD

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**Recovery and Relapse**

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It's strange how it happens.

But then again, there is little in this new life that isn't strange to me now.

Routine.

That's the answer, according to my doctor. To Greasy Sae.

I hadn't heard from Haymitch in weeks. And when the front door opened after another day I spent sitting and staring at the wall, the ghosts of my past obscuring my view of the wall across the room, I expected that its Haymitch finally come to scold me, to tell me I have to move.

But it wasn't.

And since that day, I'd seen Peeta walking past my window, out and about, moving, working, doing. Unlike me, the dead survivor.

Some days I wish I had died. Slow and painfully, fast and clean – at this point, I've endured every manner of bodily torment and so I'm beyond caring how my death would come. Anything other than this endless torment, where the ghosts follow and suffocate me, always failed, always lost, always out of reach. And then the pain would end.

And right now the pain in my heart is beyond any physical pain I've ever felt. Some days, I can't see any other way to make it stop.

Something broke in me when he planted the roses for Prim.

For a second it was almost the boy with bread. Thinner and scarred, his blue eyes cloudy with pain and effort, his expression so close to the open, trusting Peeta that haunts my memories. Just another ghost.

But, even after I disposed of Snow's roses in my room and eventually came back down from the panic attack that had me scrubbing my too-sensitive skin raw in the effort to clean the memories away, he was still there.

Living, working, doing.

Trying.

It was then I realized the difference. This ghost I could bring back.

After that, I started to try.

We both had bad days. Sometimes bad weeks. We created routines.

Peeta baked. Peeta painted. I wrote. We tended Prim's garden, now filled with every type of wildflower we could find in the Meadow.

The survivors, I called them.

I still couldn't hunt. But I wore my father's jacket like a talisman against the memories.

Sometimes it was enough.

It was strange the way it worked. Because no matter what we did, the routines, keeping busy, letting out the memories, honoring the dead – no matter what we did, the ghosts could never stay buried for long.

And even as we'd edge toward recovery, we'd inevitably fall. Relapse.

It was one such day when Peeta and I were working on Prim's garden. Peeta's blue eyes, blinking in the bright sun, held a gleam I hadn't seen in ages. Something in me stirred and that reaching feeling filled me again, that hunger for more.

He must have sensed it too, because as I leaned, sweaty and coated in dirt, toward him, a tiny smile curled his lips and he leaned in, too.

But, before our lips touched, a wasp – an ordinary, everyday wasp – buzzed angrily between us, startling us apart. I swiped at the annoying thing, feeling a disgruntled growl humming in my chest, before returning my gaze to Peeta.

I expected a grin, maybe an annoyed scowl.

Instead, I saw narrowed eyes with a suspicious, furious edge, and that face. The face of Not-Peeta. The face of mutt-Peeta.

His whole body shook with fear and rage, and he stood, slowly, taking a cautious step away from me, his eyes burning on my face. His fists shook in his anger and his face contorted in disgust. And pain.

"You," he said, his voice low and fierce. "You tried to kill me with trackerjackets in the arena," he paused, "You wanted me dead," his brow furrowing in pain despite the fierce look on his face. And the added, his eyes pleading, his voice breaking, "Real or not real?"

My heart, which had been pounding out of my chest, slowed. I let out a breath.

"Not real," I whispered, my eyes welling with tears.

Yes, he was damaged. Yes, he was tormented. But not gone. Not gone.

Peeta's face fell, and the shaking in his limbs intensified from the subtle shake of anger to the uncontrollable tremor of panic and pain. He fell to his knees, his forehead bowed to the dirt, his sobs wracking his chest.

Finally my body moved without the lead weight of my grief, my guilt. When I rose, unthinkingly, instinctually, and ran to wrap Peeta in my arms, for the first time in weeks, I felt light.

And as he sobbed and shook, for the first time in my life words didn't fall heavy-handed from my mouth. It was effortless and right and I whispered it over and over and over.

"I love you, Peeta," and "Peeta, I'm here."

It was strange how it happened. How the relapse periods would erupt out of nowhere.

How I'd be helping Peeta bake and then an image of Prim standing before the baker's cake display would throw me into a fit.

Or how an image or a touch could throw Peeta into a two-day panic with memories of torture.

Sometimes he would let me hold him. Sometimes he would lock himself in his room and forbid me to come near him. And it broke my heart, until the time he managed to scream as he did so, "For your own protection!"

But even then, I'd sat outside his door.

Saying what I should have said from the first moment of his rescue.

"I'm here."

Sometimes, after, he'd tell me about the nightmares, about the memories. The ghosts that wouldn't die. He was reluctant. But it seemed to help him. And even though it fueled my own nightmares, somehow finally _knowing_ what he'd been through felt like a relief.

It's strange how it happens. But after a while, we noticed that, when baking and painting and gardening didn't help – helping each other always did.

So our lives continued in a strange pattern of recovery and relapse.

But never at the same time.

Somehow whenever I fell, Peeta found the strength to pull me back up. To hold me, comfort me. To chase the ghosts away. And whenever they claimed him, somehow I always had the strength to save him.

It was like the Quarter Quell all over again.

Only now we fought on the same side.

For as I saved him, he saved me – and somehow we both survived.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you all for your amazing reviews! I literally JUST posted the first chapter, but all your reviews and a sudden spark of inspiration insisted that I continue. Hopefully you'll like this next chapter - A bit sadder than the first chapter, but, having gone this far, I will say, I will most likely HAVE to write at least one more chapter so as not to end on a sad note.**

Delving a bit further into the 'Relapse' idea - Gets a bit dark with suggestions of gore and violence (to oneself and others), so be careful.

Please Review!

~TLD

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**Recovery and Relapse  
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It was a bad week.

Though, by anyone else's standards, it would have been a great week.

The rebuilding effort in town was picking up. Even Peeta had felt strong enough to go into to town and lend a hand. Greasy Sae commented that she'd be back in business in two flicks of a dog's tail.

I had smiled wanly at that.

Seven days.

That was all it took for me to go from recovering to… this.

I'd been writing in the book. Peeta had drawn the most beautiful pictures of Prim, Finnick, Madge… Sometimes I'd put the pencil down and just trace my fingers over their faces. Not even caring when the paint smudged beneath my hand.

On one such day, Peeta had been out, and when he walked through my door in the evening, he found me sitting on the couch, the book held limply in my lap.

I'd heard his heavy gait from down the street, but somehow hadn't managed to find the strength to wipe away my tears until I heard the door close behind him. It was then I hastily wiped my tears, suddenly embarrassed for my weakness.

When I turned my eyes to see Peeta standing over my shoulder, I expected to see pity – no, not pity – sympathy. For Peeta never pitied me. He felt _with _me, empathized, understood.

But instead, I watched Peeta's tired, dirty face light up with a brilliant smile.

I felt confusion line my face, but I couldn't help the small smile that curled in response to his.

"What?" I said.

In answer, Peeta chuckled loudly and reached for my hand, lifting me gently from the sofa and leading me to stand before the bathroom mirror.

"Take a look," he chuckled, and flipped on the light.

My pale, beaten face, grey eyes still swollen and blurry with grief, was painted in streaks of brilliant colors – green, orange, blue, purple!

I looked down at my guilty fingers quickly – and yes, they were still smudged with Peeta's paints.

Before I could laugh, or cringe, or feel annoyed, Peeta's hand was on my chin, raising my eyes back to the mirror.

But I didn't look at myself.

All I could see was Peeta's face, Peeta's eyes. The soft, gentle, loving glow in Peeta's eyes that held me – my horrible past, my brokenness, my grief, my silly painted face – all with love, with pain, with patience, and with… awe?

"You're a masterpiece," he whispered, his voice low but heavy with love, and with awe.

At that moment, I'd spun around and locked my arms much too tight around Peeta and he held me back just as recklessly close. And for a moment, it felt like nothing could ever tear us apart.

Seven days.

That was all it took to go from that moment, to...

I'd been feeling reckless those first couple of days. Eager to fill that void with fight, with too much effort, with too much strain.

I'd helped out downtown until Thom had insisted Greasy Sae take me home after I had a screaming fit one frightening afternoon over a little red ball I'd unearthed in the remains of the Home for orphaned children.

It hadn't been so much the ball, but the tiny hand still clutched around it.

After that, I stayed home, watching Peeta bake, draw, garden. Watching him try. Come and go.

And soon all my energy left with him.

He was getting better. I could tell. The fits were fewer and further between, though, I still would occasionally see his grip suddenly tense and his eyes tighten whenever a sudden thought would surge through him.

After each time, though, he'd take a deep breath, whisper, "Find what's real. Focus on what's real," and then turn cautious eyes to me.

I don't know what he saw whenever he did that, but something always made him sigh and smile, and then I knew he was fine.

Seven days.

Who would have thought that so much could happen in such a short time?

Then again, my life had been altered so quickly, so irreparably so many times in the blink of an eye. I shouldn't be surprised.

Isn't that what happened with Prim? One second trying to reassure me, to say my name, and then next… Gone. I went from the girl who would destroy the world for her little sister to… whatever this is.

The empty shell where that love used to be.

I never realized just how much of me, of Katniss, was really my love for Prim. Now that she's gone… Who am I?

Seven days.

A week ago, Peeta told me he loved me.

He told me of a memory that had finally broken through the venom.

It wasn't a happy memory, he'd said, but it was real, and he remembered how it felt to be Peeta before the Capitol… He said he remembered the first moments after the hovercraft picked him up.

"It was pain," he'd said, his eyes distant and troubled, "and fear. But not the same as later." He'd paused, and raised tear-soaked eyes to mine, "Because I was _so afraid,_ but not for me, _for you_." He took my hands in his, but not before wiping the streaming tears from my eyes.

"Since they... did… what they did… to me," Peeta said, struggling with the words, "I've only felt that… intensity of… well, it's more than just fear… one other time." He paused, collected his thoughts.

"When the parachutes…" he began, "and you…" He shook his head as the memories temporarily overwhelmed him.

"I was so frightened for you, Katniss," Peeta whispered. "I remember that feeling now. From before." He paused, remembering. "You were so far away. I knew I couldn't reach you, but my legs starting running, and my hands…" He looked down as his burn-scarred hands.

And finally, I realized. He pulled me from the flames.

I should have spoken. But I was temporarily overwhelmed with the revelation.

But Peeta spoke again. "It's different from… these new fears…" he says. And I know what he means, the irrational fears from trackerjacket venom, the fears that were planted in his brain.

He looked up at me again, "It's different because, it's you. I love you," he said gently. "I knew it then when I was more afraid of losing you than I had ever been of anything they…" he paused, and then forced himself to say, "made me see… I knew that I loved you then. And that everyone was right, and you were right, and all the good memories that had confused me, the ones that they used to hurt me, they were all true."

Peeta's eyes streamed with tears. "I'm not the same as I was, and I can't promise I'll never hurt you, but I want you to know that I love you, and I know that I've always loved you."

My own tears had streamed, despite the smile that pulled me apart. "No," I said, placing my hand on Peeta's cheek, "You're not the same. Neither am I. But I love you, and I always will."

Seven days.

It's all it took from that moment. To this one.

The pain grew steadily in my chest. The ache. The emptiness that could never be quenched.

I saw their faces, over and over and over.

Prim. Finnick. Rue. Madge. Boggs. Coin. Snow. Cato. Clove. Thresh…

Haunting me.

I couldn't write. Couldn't see past the unnamed faces that swam into view. The people of District 12, District 8, District 2, the Capitol refugees… on and on.

I couldn't see Peeta when he tried to hold me. Couldn't feel him through the mist of the ghosts. I couldn't hear him through the fog.

And then, I dreamed of her.

We were there in the Capitol Circle. I watched her run to the aid of the bleeding, crying children, her braid flying, her white uniform shirt still out like a little duck tail.

Panicking, I looked around, screaming, searching for the second bomb.

"Prim!" I screamed.

And, by some miracle, she looked up, and turned toward me.

My heart leaped when she started moving away from the children, from where I knew she'd soon be engulfed in flames, and toward me.

"Prim!" I shouted again, "We have to get out of here!" She was so close now. I grabbed her wrists as her frightened face loomed before mine.

"Katniss!" she shouts, her voice heavy with betrayal. "How could you? How could you do this to us?" she cries, looking down at the front of my jacket.

Confused, my eyes follow her.

And then I see the bomb strapped to my own chest.

As the searing pain of burning flesh slices through me again, I wake in my bed, screaming and thrashing like a wild animal, unable to be silenced.

I don't know where Peeta is. I can't seem to remember if he'd been with me when I fell asleep. But at the moment, in my half-deranged state, I'm glad.

Because I can't do this any more. And I can't let Peeta stop me.

I make it to the kitchen, despite the lack of light and my own flailing, shaking limbs, and still heaving, sobbing chest.

But just as I flick on the kitchen lights and dig through drawers for the knife I know I'd seen there earlier, the front door opens.

"Katniss?" Peeta calls.

My breaths howl in my throat, making a gagging, choking noise like a dying animal, but my fingers close around the hilt of the knife and I pull it free as I turn to face him.

His eyes bulge in horror. "Katniss. No."

He doesn't shout. He doesn't beg.

"Don't do this."

He takes a slow, deliberate step toward me.

My body is shaking with my wracking sobs, gasping for breath. I can't breathe. My vision is blurry. I can't see.

"I hurt," I finally moan.

"I know," he says softly, calmly, taking another noisy step toward me.

"Too much," I whisper between gagging sobs.

"I know," he whispers.

And then I feel his arms around me. His soft, but firm fingers pry the knife from my hand and fling it across the room. And suddenly, my knees give out and he's holding me, carrying me to the sofa, setting me down gently in his lap and rocking me, crooning and murmuring into my hair until I fall asleep.

It was a bad week.

When I woke up next, I was not alone.

And though I screamed and kicked and protested, Peeta wouldn't let me leave the room until I talked to him. Until I told him about the ghosts, the visions, the voices, the guilt that would never, ever leave me. I replayed the haunting visions, the nightmares, sounds I'd never forget, and the guilt and guilt and guilt that threatened to swallow me whole.

I screamed at him. I begged. I shouted at him and called him every foul name I could think of, but he wouldn't let me leave. And when I couldn't scream any more, I curled up with my head on his lap, and let him brush the hair from my eyes.

I don't know when it happened, exactly. But after a time, the pain lessened. The fog cleared a bit and the ghosts seemed to ebb away. The pressure on my lungs softened and I took a deep breath for the first time in longer than I could remember.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to Peeta, still silently and softly caressing my hair.

"Me too," he whispers back.

After a long moment, I sit up to look at him properly. His blue eyes, swollen and troubled.

"I promise I'll never leave you alone to fight the nightmares again," he swears, his voice choked but fervent, "but you have to promise me: promise me you'll never try to take yourself away from me like that again." His voice shook at the end, and mine caught in my throat.

"I promise," I swear, my eyes welling up with new tears. Tears of remorse. I never meant to cause Peeta pain. And that's exactly what I'd be doing if I left: leaving him to face the demons alone.

"I'll always be here with you," Peeta says, "You don't have to do any of this alone. We've survived this far together," he added, smiling slightly.

I can't help but smile a bit. He's right, of course. We survived it all. Together.

"Together," I agree, feeling strong for the first time in days.

Peeta's answering smile is dazzling. "Always."


	3. Chapter 3

**Wow! Thank you all SO MUCH for your reviews, alerts, favorites, and WOW! This chapter may read a bit like an ending, but I actually would like to delve further into Peeta's recovery so there will probably be a couple more chapters yet. **

**Katniss FINALLY makes a realization.**

**Hope you enjoy it! Please REVIEW! Tell me how I'm doing!**

**~TLD  
**

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**Recovery and Relapse**

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Sometimes it felt like surviving was impossible.

And other days, it wasn't nearly enough.

I knew I was getting better when I was able to look back and curse myself for my cowardice.

The strength in me hadn't ebbed away when Peeta had finally let me leave the room. It had grown. In tiny spurts and waves - at an agonizingly slow pace - but it had grown, nonetheless. And every day I felt a little bit… more.

As I found the strength to push away the ghosts, I found that I could focus more on Peeta. I could focus on the Now, rather than the horrible moments that were etched in my memory forever.

For all the time that I'd spent sitting and staring, Peeta had been working.

His skin shone with a healthy sun-kissed beauty, and his bright blue eyes, only sometimes cloudy with pain and grief, more frequently wore a burning glow of determination or a sparkling glint of achievement.

I wasn't sure what it was about the manual labor, the repetition, the routines that seemed to center and drive Peeta. Surely, the flowers in Prim's garden would grow just fine on their own without him watering and tending them every day. We always had more than enough bread to eat, even after Peeta took dozens upon dozens of rolls and buns into town for the rebuilding crews, so surely he didn't need to bake every day. He'd even begun painting the inside of our houses, though the plain white walls were in perfect condition.

Well, mostly my house, since I never strayed too far from my sofa and book, and Peeta never strayed too far from me.

My doctor had said that work brings peace. Staying busy – that was the answer to keep depression at bay.

And, of course, I knew that. Hadn't I learned that from my mother's breakdown? Staying still means death.

But things were different now. With no family to feed or protect, no need to hunt or scrounge for my own food, with no more battles to fight, what was left?

Whenever my doctor would say, "Keep Busy," my brain would always reply, "To what end?"

I'd always assumed that Peeta was simply following that same advice – Keep Busy. But when he one day announced that he planned on re-opening his family's bakery in town, I finally understood.

I was surviving. But Peeta was _living_.

I hadn't thought about it much, but when I did, I realized what a coward I'd been of late. How selfish. Here I was, barely making an effort to survive, whereas Peeta, strong, battered, tortured Peeta, who had lost more than anyone, was working hard to _live_, to be more than just a survivor.

I knew it, though I never really took the time to think on it much. But despite all our differences, I realized that Peeta and I shared even more than our quest to survive. Here, at the end of things, we'd both lost and found things that had changed our lives forever.

Peeta lost his home, his entire family – but more than that – Peeta had lost a bit of himself. The Capitol had stolen away his _certainty_ about _who he is._ They polluted his mind with false images, false feelings. They'd tortured his body and mind, twisting the strong, honest boy who _knew_ _beyond a doubt_ that he was more than a tool in the Capitol's games, into a tortured man thrown out into a world of uncertainty without even the comfort of knowing that his thoughts and feelings were _his own_.

Peeta had lost. But I had found. And I didn't like what I found about myself.

Peeta was now forced to live, to pick up and _live_, with not really knowing what was real, what he was capable of, and if what he thought and felt was real. Peeta had to find strength in unimaginable _uncertainty_.

But for me, things were suddenly _certain_ with a clarity that shocked and appalled me.

For now I know, beyond a doubt, that I truly, deep down, _am_ a killer. When my love of my friends is stripped away, my love for Prim, my love of my home – now that it's all stripped away, I can clearly see, clearly face myself for who and what I am.

A killer.

Not a hunter. No, that implies skill and restraint, prudence and necessity.

No, I have no such restraint. I am like a fire that burns unquenched until it has turned everything in its path to ashes and soot. Everything that I touch suffers.

President Snow was right. I was the spark that set Panem on fire.

And all that's left is me, surrounded by ashes.

Not for the first time, I am confronted with my selfishness.

How many died because I was too selfish to give up my sister to the slaughter? How many more when I refused to give up Peeta and to let him love me? How had I inflamed the President's ire when I selfishly kept Gale close to my heart?

And where am I now?

After all the people, the hundreds, possibly thousands that died because of _my_ selfishness, where am I now?

Enjoying the company of my friend, Gale? Watching my sister grow up to be the strong, compassionate woman that I could never be? Living a happy life with the man who loves me?

No.

I even managed to burn up that. And when I abandoned him, the Capitol used my fire to burn him - to try and take away his love, the love I never deserved in the first place. It's only fitting, really.

And yet, I am just selfish enough to want it back.

No, it's more than that. My selfishness is even greater, because as Peeta struggles to find himself again, to restore that love, to be reborn in the ashes of my fire, still I sit and mope and no doing.

I do nothing to help him. Nothing to be the girl that actually deserves his love. Nothing.

I realize then, that there IS something to _live _for.

It's definitely not as helpful as feeding and protecting my loved ones. Nor as charitable as Peeta's rebuilding efforts.

In fact, it is decidedly selfish.

But in a world that no longer has a place for the girl on fire, I finally know what I want to live for, who I want to be.

It's time to start to be the girl who could, possibly, someday, _actually_ deserve Peeta's love.

I've withheld so much from him for so long, out of fear, out of rebellion against the Capitol, out of shame, and out of selfishness, but that time is over. They took so much from Peeta's mind, and while I may not ever be able to erase the images they planted, I can give him back the truth. I can fill the gaps. I've been so selfish, hoarding those happy memories locked in my heart – not even looking at them myself for fear they'll fly away and be gone forever.

But perhaps it's time for us all to fly. Leave the weight of the ashes behind, and find our own _certainty_ – a stronger foundation to build on.

I am no longer the girl on fire, no longer the mockingjay. I'll no longer be fettered by the roles I'm expected to play. This time, I write the script.

_I'm Katniss Everdeen. I live in District 12. It's in ashes, but we're rebuilding it. I'm in love with Peeta Mellark. And somehow, together we're going to build a life in this brave, uncertain, new world._


	4. Chapter 4

**First of all, WOW thank you for all the great reviews! Secondly, I wanted to write a more romantic chapter, and this is what I've come up with. Again, I can't say whether there will be another chapter after this. Let me know what you think. Should I keep going? **

**This chapter should stay well within the T rating, but if it gets a bit close, let me know and I'll up it for good measure.**

**As always, I own nothing. I'm trying to push Katniss out of her box a bit, please let me know what you think! Reviews are lovely! :)  
**

**Enjoy~**

**~TLD**

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**Recovery and Relapse**

I've seen him nearly every day since he returned to District 12, so how is that I feel as though I've never really _seen_ him before this moment?

He slices the bread on the kitchen counter, his head bowed over his work, his blonde hair reflecting the sun like the waves of grain we passed on the trip to District 11. It's gotten a bit long over the past weeks and it hangs in his eyes in straggly, bed-tousled waves. It's so unlike the boy I remember from before the Hunger Games, and yet is so perfectly Peeta that it makes me smile.

He shakes his head slightly, nudging the blonde strands away from his eyes.

My fingers twitch violently in my lap with the sudden urge to curl in Peeta's golden locks.

Shock registers on my face as a heat blooms unbidden from somewhere in my stomach, but before I feel the blush that is threatening to burn on my cheeks, Peeta turns slightly and those startling blue eyes freeze me in place.

I can only guess what he sees on my face, but he smiles slightly and the expression is so warm and inviting that I have to quickly drop my gaze before I do something stupid like cry or jump up from the table and kiss him.

He sighs, but with my eyes on the tabletop I can't tell if it's a happy or a sad sound. But as he returns to slicing, I count the racing beats of my heart with a wave of overwhelming confusion. What is the matter with me today?

I raise my eyes back to Peeta, willing my mind to understand why seeing him today feels so much different from every time before. My eyes drift down his exposed arms, tracing the lines of scars across his tanned and muscled flesh. I'd always thought of Peeta as strong. How did I never notice the curve of his muscles before? The strong set of his shoulders? The rough grip and practiced movement of his hands?

I'm shaken from my inspection by Peeta's voice.

"I'm going into town today," he begins, softly, his back still turned to me.

I hear the words and yet somehow they bounce around my distracted mind in a cluttered jumble, devoid of meaning.

"Hmm?" I reply, suddenly realizing that he's stopped cutting and is staring at me with a confused look on his face.

He notices my gaze, lingering on his hands, and seems to smirk before repeating, "I'm going into town today, to help with the rebuild."

"I'll go with you," I reply. The words are out of my mouth before I even think them, and I can see Peeta is just as confused by them as I am. I haven't been to town in weeks, and after last time…

But, as the words hang in the air, I realize that I mean it.

"Really," I insist, "I want to go. I want to help." And I want to be by your side, I add silently.

Peeta's eyes narrow as if to argue, but he seems to think better of it, and his expression clears. "Okay," he says, and throws me that heart-stopping smile.

Thankfully he lays our breakfast out on the table so I can hide my blush behind a cup of coffee and a warm slice of bread.

Seriously, what has gotten into me?

The day continues in the same pattern and I'm sure Peeta has noticed my strange behavior, but every time I get caught in his gaze, I drop my eyes like I did that first time and throw myself into the task at hand.

Which is why it took me until the end of the day to notice that something is terribly wrong.

I'd finally gotten my emotions under control as I walked down the hall toward my bedroom.

I passed by the hall bathroom, listening out of habit for the telltale sound of Peeta brushing his teeth. But as I draw near the glowing beam of light seeping through a crack in the partially opened door, I don't hear the oddly comforting 'swish swish' of Peeta's toothbrush.

Maybe it's the hunter in me, but in the utter silence I feel the weight of dread fill me and suddenly I'm standing stock still in the hall, body frozen and my breath locked in my chest. I take another silent step towards the door, my heart throbbing in my throat, and then freeze. Because now I do hear something. And it chills me to the bone.

"Not real, not real, not real…" Peeta's strained voice murmurs, struggling to suppress the pained growl building in his chest. "No…" he gasps, his breath hissing out in a tortured sigh.

Unable to help myself, I edge around the corner and peer through the tiny crack.

He is hunched over the sink, his hands clenched on the counter, the fine red lines of his burn scars throbbing angrily in his taught, shaking muscles. I see his face reflected in the mirror, his head bowed under the strain of his memories, his closed eyes and crumbled brow only partially visible through the strands of his tousled hair.

The pain in his expression is staggering. I take another instinctual step toward him.

And step down on an unfortunately creaky floorboard.

The sound is minute, but Peeta's head whips up and the blue eyes that lock with mine are sharp with accusation. My breath catches, but in an instant, his expression changes and the fury is replaced with abject fear.

"Peeta –" I begin, in a calming tone, hoping to stem the rising panic I can sense in him. But, before I can explain, he pushes past me and hurries down the hall toward the bedroom.

"Peeta!" I call, momentarily stunned by his strange behavior. "Wait!" I cry, chasing after him.

I barrel into the bedroom, but skid to a stop in the doorway. Peeta is hastily scrambling in the closet for his jacket and shoes, but he freezes suddenly when he hears me enter.

Jacket in hand, he turns to face me, squaring his shoulders, his blue eyes warily holding mine. I'm momentarily overcome by how handsome he looks, even now with his body shaking slightly, his jaw set in a hard line, and his eyes flashing dangerously.

"Peeta…" I say, soothingly, forcing myself back to the matter at hand.

But the sound of my voice does not comfort him. His eyes narrow.

"I'm going out," he replies coldly. His eyes drift from me to the open doorway at my back. His meaning is clear. I'm in the way.

I should move. I should let him go. We both know how dangerous he can be during his episodes.

But at the moment I can't seem to care. All I know is the feeling of panic at the thought of letting him out of my sight.

I shift slightly, blocking the doorway more.

Peeta's eyes widen and his brow furrows in annoyance.

"Get out of the way," he murmurs, forming each word carefully in a struggle to keep his voice even, "Katniss." He says my name in a whisper, wincing, as if saying it causes him physical pain.

I back up, and close the door behind me with a soft click that seems to reverberate through the room like a gunshot. "I can't," I say.

Here it is. The moment of truth.

"What do you see?" I ask, holding my ground against the icy blue glare of Peeta's fury.

But Peeta doesn't answer me. Instead his body shakes and he takes a deliberate step away from me. "Not real…" he mumbles, backing up another step, his glare faltering, his eyes closing momentarily.

I take a bold step toward him. "Peeta, tell me what you see!"

His eyes jolt open and he shouts, "NOT REAL!"

Dropping his jacket, he backs up against the wall, his palms raised to me as if warding me off. "Stop Katniss!" he shouts urgently, "Stay away from me! Please! I can't – I don't want – "

I freeze, trying to stop his panicking, holding my own palms up in supplication, but I don't back away. "It's okay. Peeta, it's okay!"

His breathing slows, but he doesn't move from against the wall, his eyes still wide with panic.

"Ask me what's real," I order, my voice delicate. "Ask me."

"Katniss," he whispers, his eyes darting around the room, "You should go. You NEED to go. I've been – I must be slipping back – I've seen… they can't be real – and the memories…. You HAVE to go! I don't want to HURT you!" he screams. His breathing races as his hands clench in fists, his body pressed against the wall in attempt to contain his mounting panic.

"You won't," I murmur, "You won't hurt me." I take a small step toward him, slowly, silently, like I'm stalking prey. "You're safe here. We both are," I croon softly, and Peeta's posture straightens slightly against the wall.

"Look, Peeta," I insist, "I'm real. This is real. You're safe." I reach my hand, slowly toward him, my heart racing with fear and anticipation. And even though he cringes slightly, he stands, moves a step toward me, and wraps his warm, shaking hand around mine.

I release a shaky breath of relief. Peeta doesn't.

Taking another step toward me, Peeta raises his other hand, slowly, with almost dream-like grace, toward my face. I search his face for signs of aggression, my own heart racing, but I find only confusion.

I should probably back away. He's already tried to kill me once before when he was confused. But, as I search my feelings, I cannot find the will to move.

Let him kill me, but I will not be parted from him now.

His soft hand caresses the side of my face, tracing from the faint scar by my right eye down the length of my jaw, and the sensation is so luxurious that I long to close my eyes and lean into the warm strength of his hand.

But instead my eyes are locked on his face. On the softening around his eyes. On the slight quirk of lips. On the slow smoothing of his brow. He is so beautiful.

I feel the blush rise to my cheeks as the hunger burns again in the pit of my stomach. And I watch as his eyes widen fractionally in response. But even as his brow crumples in contemplation, a smile curls his lips.

"Real?" he whispers, more to himself than to me, not seeming to believe what he sees and feels.

And I wait, embarrassed, until those probing blue eyes find mine, welling with tears despite the smile curling my lips. My heart is throbbing in my chest and it feels as if the hunger and the joy and the love that is bubbling inside of me are pressing against my lungs, suffocating me.

I draw a shaky breath, trying to keep the chaotic mess of emotions secure in my chest.

"Katniss," he whispers, his eyes glowing with joy, "you're looking at me like…"

"Like I'm in love with you?" I whisper back, my breath rushing out, my tears welling over and drawing long lines down my cheeks.

As my breath rushes out, Peeta's catches in this throat. "Real?" he gasps, cupping my face in both his hands, as if to assure himself that I'm really here.

"Real," I say, my voice coming out half-choked through the tears.

"And today?" he rushes breathlessly on, trying to put all the pieces together. "Today when you were…" He stops short at the sight of my furious blush and my guilty expression, and his smile stretches across his face.

"Real," I laugh, rolling my eyes. I expect him to laugh, so I'm surprised when he lifts my chin and presses his lips soundly to mine.

My surprise freezes me, but only for a second, because then Peeta's lips are moving softly against mine, the warmth of his skin igniting a fire at my core. His fingers curl in the hair at the nape of neck, sending chills down my spine, and his other arm wraps around my waist, pressing me against his strong, solid chest.

I press back against him with a gasp, the hunger in my chest peaking. My fingers tangle in his hair, like I've longed to do for days, and I press my lips ferociously back against his.

I am the hunger now. I am the fire. And I don't ever want it to die out. Wrapped in Peeta's arms, locked in his embrace, I don't want the fire to burn out. And as we cling to each other, grasping, tasting, _feeling_… We are consumed.

We break apart with gasps, and Peeta draws back, his rough hand cupping my cheek again. Just as I'm about to protest the loss of contact, I open my eyes and my words die in my throat. I'm stunned speechless by the staggering beauty of Peeta's glowing blue gaze.

But that's not what makes my knees feel weak and my breath catch in my throat.

It's there. In his gaze. The boy with the bread. I never thought I'd see it again. But it's there. And more.

His eyes are smoldering. And he's looking at me like… like he loves me.

"Peeta!" I gasp, my voice hitching with unabashed joy. I've seen him a million times. But never before like this. Never looking at me quite like this. I curl my fingers tighter in his hair, refusing to be parted from him.

But he doesn't pull away. He simply smiles and brushes a stray tear from my cheek with his thumb. "Katniss," he whispers, my name falling from his lips like a prayer. He holds me in silence, and suddenly, I don't care if we ever move, ever say another word to each other, as long as we can just stay in this moment forever.

After a long moment, Peeta speaks. But it's not what I'm expecting to hear.

"You should have left me when I was…" he whispered, his voice low, but heavy with awe, "but you didn't."

"I couldn't leave you to fight the demons alone," I whisper back. His eyes tighten, slightly, remembering the pain of his visions.

"I let you out of my sight once," I say, smoothing away the furrow in his brow with my fingertips, "and I almost lost you forever. I won't make that mistake again," I vow.

He smiles slightly, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Peeta," I whisper, "Please. What did you see?"

Peeta wraps me in his arms, pulling me tight into his chest. I burrow into the hollow of his throat and he nestles his head in my hair.

I begin to think he's not going to answer me, but after a long moment, he whispers, "Not every dream they used to torture me was bad."

And as the weight of his words crashes down on me, I cling tighter to him, pressing into him as if I could sink straight into his heart. I imagine I must be hurting him, but he doesn't protest. He holds me just as recklessly close.

"Peeta?" I say, my face still buried in his chest, hiding the burning blush on my cheeks, "I love you."

I can feel Peeta smile into my hair. He presses a soft kiss on my brow and whispers, his breath tickling my skin and sending shivers down my spine, "My Katniss, I love you."

He's said it before. I've heard Peeta tell me he loves me so many times in so many ways before. And yet now, it's like I've never really _heard _him until this moment.

As the hunger blooms like a wildfire in my chest, I know that this is all new. And as Peeta leads me to our bed, as our bodies tangle in a collision of fire and ice, as we love each other in new ways, we leave our recovery behind, and finally begin to _live_.

The mockingjay is gone, but in Peeta's arms, I'm still the girl on fire. And as our past is burned away, the flame of our love burns new, and we are consumed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you everyone for your support and alerts and reviews and favorites! It means so much to me! **

**Another slightly angst-filled chapter. I reread Mockingjay and this aspect of Katniss' past stuck out with me. A little more dramatic and dark than previous chapters. Just be warned.**

**Enjoy! and PLEASE review!**

**~TLD  
**

* * *

**Recovery and Relapse**

* * *

Guilt.

I thought I had experienced that particular human emotion to the fullest possible extent.

Don't I dream of the faces of the dead? I don't I see their blood on my hands? Hear their voices cursing me in my sleep? _Your fault. Your fault._

I know. It's all my fault. And that guilt follows me, waking, sleeping, like a constant stomachache. But I bear it. Because I know I deserve it.

I bear it even though some days I feel crushed beneath it's impossible weight. And when my back breaks beneath its weight, when the guilt presses the air from my lungs, and I gasp and claw at my throat and tear at my hair to try and be free of the invisible hands that choke me, I take comfort in knowing that it can't get any worse than this.

Until it does.

Until the night my visions changed. The faces cleared, the nightmare of fire and arrows and mutts and roses and long blond braids were replaced. By a new fear. And a new, crushing, impossible guilt.

Peeta's arms wrapped around me, ushering me to sleep in the warm, safe fortress of his embrace, the sound of his heart, the rhythm of his breathing, calming me, rocking me, anchoring me. As I drifted to sleep, a small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth and I nuzzled closer to the tiny slice of Heaven that survived the flames of our Hell.

The world is bright, and as my eyes adjust, I recognize this place. From my nightmares. I've seen it before. It's white. And across the austere tiled floor, silhouetted against the white walls, I see him. The metal chair looks black against the brilliant whiteness, and the chains that bind his feet and his wrists to the metal are stained a sickening reddish-brown, caked with his blood. His back is to me, his blonde head bowed over his chest, his dirty and bloody hands hanging limply at his sides.

I tense, dreading what I know comes next in this particular nightmare.

But instead of the faceless doctor who strides through a door, syringe in hand… or the group of Peacekeepers who douse him with water and shock him until his screams die out to a hoarse whisper… or President Snow, watching him writhe under the burning influence of tracker jacker venom, whispering lies about me, about home, about his life, as flashes of video flicker before his panicked eyes, his struggling causing blood to drip fresh down the dirty and stained restraints, and his moans bouncing off the walls like the sounds of a dying animal…

My heart races, my mind flickering to all of the horrible possibilities, my breath locked in my chest as the moment of silence drags on…

Silence. The door remains closed.

Silence. The blinding lights sear my eyes.

Silence. Peeta stirs. The blonde mess of his hair shakes slightly, his head lolling subtly against his chest.

I hold my breath, waiting for the axe to fall. My heart aches, needing to be closer to Peeta, needing to clean his wounded wrists, brush the tangled mess of his hair out of his eyes, ease his tortured mind.

Silence. I ache to move to him, but I have no body. Only eyes, tortured by his distant form. Only ears, throbbing from the deafening silence.

"Peeta." My voice echoes through the empty room. Peeta stirs painfully in response. My pulse hammers in my veins, and my heart drops into my stomach as dread fills me with a wave of nausea.

Because I have no voice. And _I_ had not called out Peeta's name.

Just as understanding crashes over me, a screen flickers to life in front of Peeta's eyes.

And finally, I see who Peeta's torturer is to be.

Me.

"Kat-niss?" Peeta stirs restlessly, finally returning to consciousness at the sound of my voice, the sight of me before him on the screen. I cringe at the sound of hope in his voice.

"_Well, you've looked better_," I hear myself say on the screen, the cold words and image taking me back to my first conversation with Peeta after his hijacking. I watch my grey eyes narrow in anger and my lips turn up in a mocking smirk.

"Katniss?" Peeta moans, shaking his head furiously against the cruel tone of my voice.

I can't watch. I can't listen! _Peeta!_ I want to cry out. _Peeta! Don't listen! Peeta!_

But I have no voice.

Except for the one on the screen.

The image shifts and I seem to be creeping closer to the restrained and vulnerable Peeta. "_I was trying to kill you… trying to kill you all…_" My voice slides through the room, slimy and distorted, cold and calculating. And I stiffen in response, remembering saying something very similar… "You had me treed," I had continued… but not now, now the words creep through the room, stinging and biting like tracker jackers.

I have no body, but I can feel them, stinging me, biting me, and I wish I could cry out. My eyes flick to Peeta, expecting him to be writhing in the same pain I feel.

But as always, Peeta is stronger than me.

"No…" he moans, turning his face away from the screen. "No, you weren't! You were trapped, Katniss!" Peeta's shouts echo through the room.

And then he screams and the sound nearly stops my heart. His body shakes as the electricity flows through him.

_Stop! _I want to scream. _Stop! Leave him alone! STOP!_ My heart is bursting under the strain of Peeta's pain and my utter helplessness.

_Wake up, Katniss! Wake up!_ This is a dream, right? I should be able to wake. Peeta is holding me, I know he is. I just have to wake up. But dream-Katniss has other thoughts, and my voice fills the room again.

"_Everyone says I loved you. Everyone says that's why Snow is torturing you. To break me,_" my voice hisses, conspiratorially, leaning in as if to share a great secret with Peeta.

Peeta struggles against his bonds, moaning softly to himself. "No…no…not real…"

But my voice continues. "Let me tell you a secret, Peeta." The voice is too sweet, too cruel to be mine, but Peeta quiets nonetheless. "I've _never_ loved you."

Peeta's struggle resumes and I watch with mounting horror the steady drip-drop of his blood against the white tile floor. "Not real…" he chants, "Not real…"

"Yes Peeta, this is real." I argue, "_I'm _the reason you are here. _I_ turned you over to Snow. I don't want you. I've never wanted you."

Body or no body, I feel like I'm going to vomit – watching my own words wound and torture Peeta. I struggle anew to gain power over the dream, but I find I have no hold. Completely of it's own accord, the room spins.

And as Peeta speaks, I'm suddenly moving around to face him, "No… Katniss, please!" he pleads with the screen. "This isn't you! This isn't who you are!"

As my voice cuts anew, I'm faced with tear-drenched, bleary blue eyes, desperately searching for the truth. "_Now you see me as I really am_…" my cold voice slices into him, and I shudder in response to his startling wince.

"No…" Peeta moans, and I watch in horror as another electrical current speeds through him, blood flowing freely now from his shaking, twitching wrists and ankles.

I try to scream but no sound leaves my mouth. I try to rush to him, but I have no body.

Peeta's body stills and for a moment he looks peaceful. Until those blue eyes open and Peeta's face is contorted in abject terror.

"No, Katniss, please," he begs, his eyes bulging, "Katniss, please… please don't kill me."

I try to look around to see what he sees, but the screen has gone blank. I see nothing.

Until I look down.

I have a body now. And my eyes rest, like Peeta's, on the gun in my outstretched arms.

"Please, Katniss," Peeta begs, tears streaming down his eyes. He looks so helpless. So vulnerable.

And as I feel my fingers tighten around the trigger, I hear my voice echoing through the room, "_I wouldn't be shooting Peeta. He's gone… It'd be just like shooting another of the Capitol's mutts…"_

The gunshot booms. And as Peeta's blood pours from the hole in his chest, I finally find my voice.

And that's when the screaming starts.

"Katniss!"

I thrash and struggle. The hands are holding me down. But Peeta is dying and I have to save him! I thrash.

"Katniss! Katniss, wake up!" The voice is so familiar, and with a sudden _snap_ I'm free.

"Peeta!" I gasp, breaking into consciousness, searching for those blue eyes that will prove I'm awake and he's safe and we're free and we're safe and that I'm not alone in the darkness.

"Yes, here I am, Katniss. Shh," he croons, and my eyes adjust to the low light, and THERE he is! His face inches above mine, his blue eyes probing my face, his arms cradling me to his chest. Soothing me. Comforting me. Caring for me even when I didn't care for him… Healing me even though I couldn't bear to help heal him… Staying by me even though I fled from him.

And suddenly I'm sobbing uncontrollably, burying my ashamed, guilty face in Peeta's strong, soft chest.

He is startled by my sudden outburst, but his arms wrap tightly around me. "Shh, it's OK." Peeta croons, "It was just a dream. You're OK." He holds me, comforts me.

I don't deserve it.

I start to struggle against his hold, to break away from the comfort I don't deserve.

"I'm sorry, sorry…sorry," I mumble, fighting against him. Confused, his arms tighten around me.

"Katniss?" he asks, concern coloring his tone.

"Let me go, Peeta! I don't – " I argue, finally surfacing from his embrace. But before I can get up, Peeta's hands grab my arms, holding me before him – my face only inches away from his, his blue eyes now flickering with fear and concern. I try to look away, dropping my eyes in shame, but Peeta's hand cups my chin, locking my gaze on his.

"Katniss?" Peeta asks softly, "Please, tell me what's wrong?" His voice doesn't even sound tired. I must have really frightened him. Guilt pierces me again. When will I ever stop hurting him?

I take a deep breath, mustering my courage, and raise my now swollen, blurry eyes to Peeta's.

"How-" I choke, my abused voice catching in my throat. Tears stream down my cheeks.

"How what?" Peeta asks gently, wiping the tears away. The sweet gesture nearly breaks me. After all I've done, after all the ways I've hurt him, still he comforts me.

"How can you still love me?" I whisper, "After all the pain I've caused you, after all the ways I've let you down… after all the ways I hurt you…" My voice chokes out between sobs, cracking like a dry whisper.

Peeta's eyes well with tears, and suddenly I can't bear to see what emotion lies there. Maybe the reminder of my cruel, manipulative nature will throw him into a hijacked rage and I'll feel those soft hands strangling me, ushering me into the death I've earned a hundred times over. Or worse, perhaps he'll finally realize how much I've hurt him and leave me forever with only my guilt, my ghosts, and that emptiness in my heart only he could ever fill.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. Whatever he decides, I need him to know that. "I'm so, so, sorry." My voice is nearly inaudible as the tears stream silently. I hear Peeta's breath catch, but still the silence hangs heavily between us.

_He's not going to answer_, my thoughts accuse. _Because he knows you're right_.

I keep my eyes down and pull back. He deserves better than this, better than me.

"Wait," he says, softly, holding me firmly. "Katniss," he says, my name like a sigh from his lips. He's waiting for me to meet his eyes. I bite the inside of my cheek, holding back the sudden fear of what I might see there. I feel his finger under my chin and, swallowing my fear, I let him lift my head. My eyes rest heavily on his jaw, his lips, his cheekbones, savoring them, before they reach his eyes.

And then I gasp.

His blue eyes are beautiful! Pulsing with emotion, wide and searching, and brimming with awe, and joy, and need, and… love.

"How?" I whisper, shocked yet again at his ability to love me when I don't deserve it.

"Katniss," Peeta mumurs, his eyes locking me in place. "I loved you from the moment I first saw you. I heard you sing, and your innocence, your spirit lifted us all. And then I watched you almost starve. But you survived. You fought. You saved your family."

He paused, brushing a stray hair from my cheek.

"I _know_ you, Katniss." Peeta said suddenly, taking me by surprise. "You feel. You care. But, in a world where feelings meant death, you fought to survive."

I feel a blush of shame burning my cheeks. There it was again. Talk of me being a survivor. _She'll pick the one she thinks she can't survive without._ Heartless. Selfish.

"No, Katniss," Peeta urges, pulling me from my thoughts. "It's not what you think. You saved us all. Don't forget that, okay? You _saved _me!"

"But-" I try to interrupt.

"You're not perfect," Peeta rushes on. "Neither am I. If you remember, I _tried to kill you_." His eyes are dark with the memory. Before I can argue – and I'm about to – he continues, "I wish we could only have good memories between us, Katniss, but that's not our life. That's not our story."

I'm speechless, momentarily stunned by Peeta's words and our matching tears streaming down our cheeks. We're locked in each other's gaze, and suddenly I realize his lips are only inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my skin.

"Peeta," I whisper, moving unthinkingly closer to him.

"Yes?" he breathes back.

My lips brush against his. "What _is_ our story?"

He smiles, his lips brushing even closer, "I love you more than my own life," he murmurs, and a fire erupts in my belly, "and you love me more than yours," he continues, certainty so strong and sure in his soft, sensual tone. I feel myself melting.

"Yes," I breathe against his lips, my heart pounding strongly in my chest. I love him. My body sings with it. The truth of it floors me: I love him more than my own life! And he knows it!

I press my lips softly against his, feeling a sigh purr in my chest. My body begs me to deepen the kiss, but I feel myself pulling back and the words whisper out.

"And how does our story end?" I murmur, not even blushing at the seductive edge to my tone.

Peeta smiles and pulls me tighter to his chest, rolling slightly over me, his lips still hovering, barely caressing mine, his weight pressing ever so slightly against my body. The heat races through me in a crushing wave and my body tingles with anticipation and need. My hands clutch his shirt, his hair, any bit of him I can reach, clinging, pressing.

My heart hammers in my ears as Peeta's blue eyes smolder like blue flame, but even so, I hear his next words, loud and clear.

"Ask me again in sixty years…" His lips crash down upon mine, and as the heat from our bodies seems to set the very air aflame, the truth of his words crash even harder upon me.

Peeta is mine and I am his. No more battles to fight. No more wars keeping us apart. No more axes hanging over our heads, forcing us, threatening us, chaining us, using our love to torture and manipulate us. We have days and weeks and months and years to live and love and leave the guilt and scars of our past behind. Peeta is right.

Our story has just begun.


End file.
